


Heavy Petting

by Pares (kormantic)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Dog Happy With Belly Rubs, Dogs, Happy Ending For Man and Dog Alike, M/M, Man Wild With Jealousy!, Man and Dog Take a Walk, Man vs Dog, POV Alternating, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-22
Updated: 1999-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair gets a dog, Jim gets a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy Petting

**Author's Note:**

> I have Bone, Charlemagne, Iain and of course JiM to thank for invaluable assistance with this beast.

In a lot of ways, living with Jim is like having a dog. A really _big_ dog, I mean, man, if Jim _was_ a dog, he'd be... probably a Rottweiler, all sleek and huge and ripply with heavy muscle, the kind that bites down and never, and I mean _never_ lets go. 

Yeah, like a Rottweiler. One of Naomi's boyfriends had one, his name was Frankie, the dog not the guy, and man, he was just humongous, you know? But sweet as apple pie. Just would lay right down with you and let you love him. 

I couldn't really have a dog when I was growing up-- I mean, we moved around so much and everything, and Naomi kept reminding me how unfair it would be "uprooting" it and all. And I could definitely see her point. Usually we didn't have a lot of room, and when we _were_ someplace rural, it was never for much longer than it took to make friends with the packs of dogs that were already roaming around. And I also learned that a lot of people, who _haven't_ been raised on communes, are not exactly at ease with livestock. 

Like Jim. 

I mean, maybe he used to take riding lessons and everything, but I'm pretty sure he would _freak_ out if I brought a pet home. He'd be concerned about dog hair on the couch or something. 

But like I said, I guess I don't really need a dog as long as Jim's around. He's a lot like Frankie, now that I think about it. Loyal. Protective. Affectionate. Of course, I'm fairly sure that Jim won't be letting me rub his belly any time soon. 

Not that I haven't thought about asking him-- 

There's Jim's key in the lock. Zero hour. He'll probably be totally cool with this. All I have to do is ask. 

"Jim, can we have a dog?" 

Jim blinks at me twice, tips his chin up, squints thoughtfully and then says, "No." 

Progress. Three whole seconds. It doesn't usually take him more than two to flat out reject me. Now it's just a matter of making him revise his opinion. 

"Oh, c'mon, Jim--" 

He holds up a hand, as flat and wide as a regulation Stop sign. 

"I said 'No'. What the heck do you want a dog around for anyway? They bark, they smell," The big guy was scrunching up his face just thinking about eau d' pooch. 

"Well, Fitch is leaving for Madagascar for three months and he doesn't want to send Bert to the kennel--" 

"Look, Chief, you're a real prince to offer-- Three _months_!?" 

"And I kinda already said we'd take him?" I used to _practice_ this "don't-hit-me" look in high school, and I'm glad I did, because it hasn't failed me yet in the Jim department. He might encroach big time on my personal space, even grab me now and again, but I'm pretty sure he'd never actually take a swing at me. 

"You _what_? Wanna run that by me again?" 

"Uh, Bert's on his way over now, actually." Smile Sandburg, he looks _way_ pissed... "We're not actually keeping him for the whole three months. Just two weeks and then Bert's off to stay with Fitch's sister Angie, but she's not back from Costa Rica yet--" 

"Sandburg! It's just like you to--" 

There's a rap at the door. 

Jim raises his head again, takes a long sniff and glares at me. 

He stabs a finger at me, and growls. 

"The first thing you're gonna do is give that flea bag a bath, understand me?" 

Message received loud and clear, man. In _Cambodia_. 

* * *

I've never seen anything like it. 

Sandburg is _blow-drying_ that mutt. 

The dog doesn't seem to mind. Just sitting there, tongue lolling, as Blair curries his coat and directs a hot blast of air at all that fur. 

Jesus. That dog has more hair than any three regular dogs I've seen. Maybe he's just fat. "Bert" hasn't done much except lay around near wherever Blair happens to be. And eat. 

As far as I can tell, he's basically a living speed bump. 

I should know, I've already tripped over him four times. He always seems to be just where I'm not looking, enhanced senses or not. And I can't shake the feeling that he's doing it on purpose. 

Blair's kneeling now, rubbing that stupid spaniel mutt's white belly, and old Bert's just soaking it up, feathered tail thumping so loudly on the hardwood that I'm sure I'll get a headache, even dialing down. 

I cock my head. A strange sound-- from Blair-- is that _crooning_? 

"There you go Bert, yeah, who's a good boy? You are yeah, that's right Bert, good boy--" 

He's letting that animal lick his face. His lips! I feel my mouth curl, I mean how can he let that thing-- and the dog is just eating him up, jumping around and all excited-- 

Hell, I agreed to let it stay here. 

I didn't agree to watch it slobber all over my roommate. 

* * *

Jim throws up his hands and stalks out of the living room, taking the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. 

Man, he _totally_ does not like this dog. 

"What are we gonna do, Bert? Huh? You'd better be nice to the big guy, buddy, or we'll both be out on our asses." 

Bert looks sympathetic, but not overly cooperative. 

"Let's take you for a walk while you still smell good, boy. Impress the lady dogs in the neighborhood." 

* * *

Even from the loft I can see how the dog scrambles to its fluffy little paws the minute Blair stands up. He follows the kid around like a-- well, like a dog. Rests his drooling jaw on the man's knee, looks at him all adoring and-- 

I'm losing it. I'm-- what's the word? Anthropomorphizing? That doesn't sound right, but you know what I mean. I'm giving this dog all kinds of _emotions_. Motives, even. Like it's a person or something. 

I'd take a walk to clear my head, but I know I'd only end up following Blair. Just to keep an eye on him, is all. The kid attracts trouble the way light attracts moths. I guess that's a pretty apt analogy, now that I think about it. 

He does have kind of a-- a glow. 

Maybe spark is a better word. 

I don't know, something about his eyes, the way they're so wide and bright. A sort of shine around his face, the way his hands almost blur when he's excited about something. Which is a lot of the time. 

He's seemed a little subdued just lately, though. He's taking extra care to stay on my good side. The dog's been here three days and the guy's already given him two baths. He even remembered the hair trap, _and_ used his own shampoo. The damned dog even smells like him now. 

Well, enough to remind me of Blair. 

I should probably let up, let the kid know I don't really mind. And, really, I stopped being angry about the time he agreed to wash the dog. 

But it's like I had a role to play. "Gruff Cop Guy." I'd sort of committed to being against the idea, and in order to be consistent, I had to play along for a while. Because it's important to be consistent. 

I'll buy the mutt some treats. Then Blair will settle down. I heard him talking to the dog. 

I don't think he really believes that. That I'd throw him out. He knows I'd never just dump him at the curb. 

I guess I should tell him that, anyway. Make it clear. He's always telling me I need to "communicate" more... 

* * *

I wonder if I could train Bert to be a K9. If he was a _working_ dog, maybe Jim wouldn't have such a hard time with him. I try to picture Bert's fifty pounds of fluff as menacing police dog, and I have to chuckle. 

"Sorry, man. No badge for you." 

Bert just smiles at me and wags his feathered tail. 

I spot a donut shop across the street and it gives me an idea. With an even dozen of Buttermilk under my arm, maybe I can foster a more _constructive_ relationship between man and beast. 

* * *

I take it back. 

I _am_ gonna dump him on the curb, and I'm gonna make an ottoman out of that damned spaniel. 

"You want me to compete with a _dog_?" 

"Well, no, Jim, not compete-- compare. A few simple trials, just to judge, you know, hearing and smell." 

Sandburg smells like dog, and donuts, and I'm distracted by his bare feet. He keeps flexing his toes like the floor is too cold. He's really sensitive to a chill, I've noticed. He follows my eyes down and then his head bobs up, curls splashing around his face. 

"I hid one of my socks somewhere in the room, " he says, holding up what I guess to be the graying twin of the secreted sock. "I want to see who can find it first." 

He drops into a crouch and offers his sock to Bert, who noses it appreciatively. 

Grinning that Blair grin, he dangles the sweatsock at me, now probably covered in dog slobber. 

I hold up a hand. Cute, Chief. Real cute. 

"That, ah, won't be necessary, Sandburg. I'm already an expert in the field of finding your laundry in unexpected places." 

I lift my head and close my eyes. Think of Sandburg. What does he smell like? 

Patchouli. That kind of spicy cologne his Mom sent him-- he doesn't wear it a lot, not at home, I think it's because he knows that smells are the hardest for me to dial down, and he doesn't want to overpower me. 

Blair's a pretty thoughtful guy, after all, the messes he leaves around aside. 'Entropy', he calls it. Entropy. I went to college; I know about energy applied to closed systems. His energy, my system. 

Okay, so patchouli-- and that sandalwood oil he sometimes comes home smelling like after spending a night with a new girlfriend. I like that one. Mellow, but sexy... 

Sexy? 

Ignore that, focus on Blair... 

I take another sniff, deeper, hold that smell, breathe it, try to keep it trapped in my lungs. 

I read somewhere, probably in one of the journals Blair keeps lying around, that the olfactory senses are triggered by actual molecules of the substance you're smelling. Kind of nasty to think about that when you're cruising past a landfill, but when it's Blair, his smell, _his_ molecules, I guess I can deal with it. I exhale, take another, deeper breath. 

Whiff of patchouli, there's the sandalwood, what's that? His jacket, the tweed one, book dust? Yeah, book dust and... sex? 

My feet follow my nose to the couch and I prize up one cushion. Crumpled silk boxers. Silk!? I scoop them up, and I catch myself before I bury my face in them. 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I'd have given the kid a heart attack. 

And it's not like I need them any closer to tell. 

"You were with Judy?" I ask, waving the shorts as one might a handkerchief at a departing train. A train that's leaving with what's left of my sanity, apparently. 

* * *

"Whoops," I say. "I was wondering where those had gotten to..." 

Jim looks pissed like I've never seen him. This was _not_ a good idea. 

"Uh, Jim, man, it's not what you think. I mean, yeah, it was Judy, but I didn't have her here, you see Jim, I'd spent the night there, but I had my underwear in my jacket pocket, right? And I guess it fell out or something and--" 

Jim suddenly looks blank. He blinks, shakes his head. Is he so pissed he's _zoning_? Has that happened before? 

He drops the boxers and kind of grimaces at me, like he's just stubbed his big toe. 

"I'm... I'm... I apologize." Then he just turns on his heel and makes for the door. He doesn't even bother to take his jacket. That can't be a good sign. 

Bert drops a shoe at my feet. I squat and pet his head. At least he had the right idea. 

"Close but no cigar, compadre." 

Bert wags his tail anyway. 

* * *

I got in my truck and drove to the station on autopilot. It's a wonder I didn't wrap myself around a telephone pole. I just need a place to think. A place that doesn't remind me of Blair. 

The station, now that I'm here, seems like a bad choice. Even though I'm not trying to, I can sense him all over the damned place. There's a chocolate thumbprint on my desk from the other day when he deigned to share my candy bar. He'd asked me if I even _knew_ what 'nougat' was. 

There's a strand of his hair under my desk where the cleaning crew missed it. I can smell him on all the paperwork stacked in my outbox. Hell, I can smell him on the _shirt_ I'm wearing. Molecules of his breath and sweat are stuck in the fibers. 

I'm going to give myself a stroke if I don't calm down. 

Okay. All right. I just need to review this. Process it, as Blair would say. Maybe I'm just having some sort of "moment" or something. Maybe I'm just spiking because I could smell sex on his-- on his-- 

I clench my hands into fists, trying not to remember the glide of silk on my skin, the bouquet of stale... I'm sniffing my own palms before I realize that I've got his... his _mark_ on my hands. 

I head for the john. 

I soap up three times, and by the time I'm drying my hands, I'm really beginning to worry. 

Think, Ellison, _think_. Have you always had the hots for the kid? 

Well, how the hell should _I_ know? 

I damned well didn't notice it until today, that's for sure. 

I close my eyes and try to distract myself from unsavory thoughts of my partner. I figure I'll take the senses for a test drive-- and then I realize I probably don't need to be standing in the men's room when I open up. 

Shrugging past H, I walk to the center of the bullpen. Rafe is making eyes at Conner, showing off his latest Mr. Fashion Plate ensemble. Megan's shoes are too tight; they're biting into the tops of her feet. I'm gritting my teeth just looking at them. Why do women _do_ that? I take a deep breath, let it go, take another one and close my eyes again. 

I can hear the hum of every electric device that's plugged in on three floors, and I can hear toilets flush all over the building. The clatter of keyboards, the murmur of people, and the whisper of their clothes as they move, is a dull roar in my head. I gotta turn this down. 

Okay. Better. Now what? 

Smell seems neutral. It smells like every station I've ever been in. Wite Out, gun oil and shitty vending machine coffee. Only pineapple danish at the snack cart. Taggart's started dyeing his hair. H has been frequenting Open Mic nights again-- his jacket reeks of clove smoke. And what the--? 

"Jim. Jim. Jim! Wake up! This is your captain speaking, we are now cruising at an altitude of--" The familiar scent of Goldflake tobacco and freshly chewed cigar tugs me back from my sensory field trip. 

"Sir, did you know Rafe uses hairspray!?" 

Simon gives me a longsuffering look and sighs, patting my shoulder. 

"Follow me," he suggests, and once the door to his office is safely closed behind us, he sits on the edge of his desk and his dark face creases into a frown. He stares at me over his glasses. 

"What's up, Jim? You don't usually zone right in the middle of the bullpen. And where's Sandburg? And isn't today your day off?" 

I need an impartial observer. I definitely can't ask around-- but I can shut myself up in the prep room and review the evidence. 

"Uh, yeah, but I need... You remember Joe's going away party? Didn't H videotape it?" 

Simon just cocks an eyebrow, points at a shelf and waves me away, his face full of 'I don't know and I don't _want_ to know.' 

So, I've been watching the video H made of Joe Kramer's retirement party. And I've come to realize a couple of things. One, that Taggart has slimmed _down_ since this thing was filmed in '97, two, that I can't seem to keep my hands off Sandburg. 

I mean, Jesus, I'm all over the guy, he's practically wearing me like a cheap suit, here. 

I rewind it, replay the "for he's a jolly good fellow" thing-- I've got my hand on Blair's shoulder like I'm a goddamned human epaulette and he doesn't seem to mind. Hell, he doesn't even seem to notice. 

Huh. Well, yeah, sure, I'm a hands on kind of guy. A friendly pat here and there. Maybe a shoulder squeeze to let a buddy know I'm there for him. I'm a little touchy-feely maybe, as Sandburg would say, but... this. This can't be normal. This can't be... 

Can't be... what it looks like. 

And what does it look like, Jimmy? 

It looks a hell of a lot like some possessive asshole pawing his girlfriend so that everybody else knows to back off. 

Except that Blair is not, and never will be, anybody's girlfriend. 

How can I not have noticed this before? Why hasn't anybody said anything? Does everybody just assume everything's hunky dory? 

Wait a minute, wait a minute. Maybe I'm getting a little paranoid here. Maybe I'm just projecting my anxieties on this thing. 

I mean, maybe the fact that I've practically got my hands in his pockets _does_ look a little fruity, but it feels fine. Good. Right. So that's normal, right? 

Right? 

* * *

I'd done a little pacing by the time Jim comes back. He was only gone for about an hour, and I was so relieved, you'd have thought he'd gone off to do something death defying instead of just... renting a video? 

Maybe he's going to do some serious thinking while sitting through Football Follies Volume Eight or something. 

Or work off some tension with a few visual aids in the form of Naughty Nurses III. 

_There's_ a place I didn't want to go, thank you very much. The last thing I need to see every time I close my eyes is Jim sprawled on the couch with his shirt open, framing that _sculpted_ chest, as he undoes his jeans and... 

_ahem_

Maybe it's time to take Bert for another walk. 

"Sandburg?" 

"Uh, yeah Jim?" 

"Do me a favor, huh? Watch this. I'd like your professional opinion." 

Well, the chances are good it's not a porno. I mean, I've lived here for going on three years, and I've never seen any evidence that Jim even watches porn. Not a skin mag, not a Playboy channel, not a Naughty Nurses I or II in sight. 

And if it was porn, he certainly wouldn't invite me to watch it with him. Would he? My heart starts tripping and my palms slick up. Then Bert stops licking my hands and I get up from the kitchen chair and settle on the couch. 

And immediately start kicking myself. 

Jesus, Sandburg. The guy rents a movie, like he's done a hundred times before, and on not a _shred_ of evidence you jump to the bizarre conclusion that he's gonna offer you a private triple X screening? 

What is _up_ with me? 

* * *

The kid seems a little tense. Probably he's waiting for me to rip him a new one for having a girl over. He's pretty keyed up-- jeez, what, does he think I'm gonna whack him with a folding chair? 

"Relax, Sandburg. It's a little cinema verite, but you probably won't lose your lunch over it." 

"You know what? I'm gonna run to the store and get some JiffyPop. Can't have the true movie experience without buttery fingers and hulls in your teeth." 

"Sure thing. Pick up a six of Honeybrown while you're out, too, huh?" 

"Will do," and he slips out the door. 

Which leaves me alone with The Dog. 

Now, I'll tell you, I've never had a dog. But if I did decide to get one, it would be nothing like this panting little throw rug. At least he's not yappy. He's giving me the eye, though. I'd bet you my last five bucks he's hungry. Again. 

Seems like every time I turn around the kid is filling this thing's bowl. He must have four hollow legs. It gives me an idea. 

"You hungry, there, sparky?" 

His nails chitter on the floor as he leaps up, ears perked. 

I cock my head and listen for Sandburg's Volvo to pull away and clear the corner before I make my way into the kitchen and my secret supply of Forbidden Snack Foods. He'd notice if I killed the box of donuts, and he'd never let me hear the end of it. Sandburg has pretty much proclaimed himself my personal dietician, and although I draw the line at algae shakes, I have to admit, I've never felt better. 

But every now and again I need the pure white rush of refined sugar, so I've been hoarding Suzie Q's in a box that reads "Organica's Best Wheat-O Flakes". 

Wheat-O flakes, by the way, taste like cypress mulch. Trust me on that. 

I settle on the couch with my contraband, and unwrap a spongy square of cake, inhaling its rich chocolate aroma. I swipe my tongue along the devil's food sandwich seam and get a thick mouthful of whipped chemical cream. 

Poor old Bert is shivering with Suzie Q lust. 

Heh heh heh, sorry, buddy, none for _you_... 

I make my way through most of the box, ruthlessly cramming the cake wrappers in the garbage can so our boy Bert can't get at them, and I'm licking my fingers as Bert drools, eyes wide and frenzied with frustration. 

I must be having some sort of sugar induced zone out or something, because I swear I never hear Blair unlock the door and cross the room. 

"Jim! Are you _teasing_ the dog?!" He sounds equal parts incredulous and amused as hell. 

"Uh..." I lick the last of the cream off my fingernail and try to look innocent. "What? No! No, I was just uh... sharing." And I unwrap the very last tasty cake and drop it. Bert snaps it out of the air before it even hits the floor. 

The kid shakes his head and hands me a beer from the cardboard case he's got in his hands. 

"Okay, man. And why are you still stashing those things in the Wheat-O's box? Don't _think_ I don't know where you hide them..." And he ambles toward the kitchen to stow the beer in the fridge. 

By the time he has the popcorn popped, Bert is chasing his tail with ecstasy, and the loft smells warm and buttery. Comfortable. 

"Show time, Sandburg." And I hit the play button on the remote. 

Blair plops the bowl on the couch between us and grins at me, folds his legs up and leans his elbows on his knees to focus on the action, what there is of it, on the screen. He's tucking his long curls behind his ears and reaching into his pocket for his glasses. 

He seems interested, but not shocked or appalled or even uncomfortable. His wariness from before has worn off, and he's smiling at the screen like the guys have just walked into the room. Bert keeps butting his head into Sandburg's hands, demanding popcorn and ear massage, and Sandburg's stroking him, distracted by the video. 

"Hey, there's the horse! This is that party we went to..." 

And then he trails off and I remember something. 

The party we went to on the night Maya reappeared in his life. Way to go, Jim. Dredging up memories of lost lovers is sure to make this whole 'I think I may be sexually attracted to you' discussion even more fun. 

Well, you know what? 

Fuck it. 

I can do this another time. In fact, I don't have to do this at all. 

I plunk my beer on its coaster, turn off the VCR and scrub my face with my hands. 

* * *

I've had months to get over Maya, so it's not as hard as you might think to lock her back in that box of memories stamped "Bittersweet". I've only had a few hours to try and understand this new brand of Jim reaction though, so I get right on it. 

I tell Bert to go lay down, take my glasses off and focus on my Sentinel. 

"Jim? Is everything okay?" 

"How do you put up with me, Sandburg?" 

He's kind of hunched over and... and _forlorn_ looking. Wow. I didn't think a guy as big as Jim could _look_ like that. He hasn't looked this bad since he told me about Bud. 

I reach out to pat his shoulder and he jerks back. 

Oh, man. This is serious. Did I do something I don't remember doing? No, I put the seat down. Put the dishes away. Heck, I even remembered to put the garbage out... 

"Is this about Bert? 'Cause, you know, if he's really bothering you, I can farm him out to Judy for the duration." 

"No, it's not about the dog. It's about _me_. Well, me and you." 

I feel my eyebrows climb. This is serious stuff. Serious Jim emotional stuff. 

"I've been acting like some kind of cave man. Sandburg, It's none of my business who you sleep with. And hell, this is your home, too. I want you to feel comfortable here, not worry about being careful around me, or ever think that I'd blow up and throw you out just because I'm some kind of territorial dickhead." 

Oh. I get it. 

"You heard me talking to Bert, huh?" 

I scootch closer, and he doesn't flinch this time when I lay my hand on his shoulder. 

He nods, bashful. 

"Yeah, but it wasn't until I was flying off the handle at you, and saw how you were trying to defuse the situation... " He shakes that shorn head of his. "I can't believe you let me get away with shit like that. I take all my frustrations out on you, Blair, and that's just not right." 

I squeeze his shoulder a little, remind him I'm with him. 

"Hey man, it works both ways. I know I ramble, and I can be _so_ revved up. Hell, sometimes I even annoy _myself_." 

"Blair, I'm trying to apologize here." 

"Apology accepted, big guy. Seriously. I really appreciate it. I mean _everything_ ," and I squeeze his knee to emphasize it, and also because I just like to feel his muscles flex. "Jim, _c'mon_ man, because of you I have a _great_ place to live, instant 24/7 access to my research focus, I've had some _incredible_ adventures, we are talking Drama in Real Life here, and you're just... basically the best thing that ever happened to me. So if it means I have to deal with a little macho posturing, I can totally deal with that." 

He's just sitting there, mouth open, and I'm beginning to worry, and then he frowns. 

"Macho posturing?" 

_Whew!_ Now we're back on familiar ground. 

But he blows off the joke, blinks at me a few times more and then grabs my elbow, all urgent, like there's a fire in the building and we're gonna need to jump out a window or something. 

"Chief, do you think I touch you too much?" 

Huh? Where the hell did _that_ come from? 

Now I _am_ sweating. Okay, be calm, don't make a big deal out of this, Blair. 

"No way, man. Your touching me is totally cool. Even necessary." 

He gives me a "go on" kind of look, and that is _rare_ , because he's usually tired of hearing me before I even open my mouth, but I try to explain. 

"Tactile communication. It's really important, you know? I mean, when you send all your other senses _out_ you need to have a place to bring them home to. _You_ have to be there, right? So touch reminds you where you are, and it anchors the rest of your senses, because really, all those other senses are pretty much rooted in _contact_ , right? Whether it's light hitting your rods and cones or soundwaves bouncing off your eardrum. So it's all good." 

He nods, as if it really makes sense to him, as if he's really been _listening_ and I feel relieved, you know, that I could convince him. 

"So you don't mind then?" 

"Not at all. I'm completely down with it." So please don't think of stopping anytime soon, 'cause man, I'd _miss_ it. 

"Does that mean you like it?" He seems pretty genuinely shocked by this idea. 

"Yeah, I like it. It's friendly. It's _connection_. And you're fun to touch. Like when you get all bunchy and pissed, I can feel your muscles get all _tight_ \--" 

Oh man, the babblewagon has totally veered off the trail, here. 

What the _hell_ am I saying? 

* * *

The kid just stops mid-sentence and stares at the floor. 

"Um..." he stammers. 

I'll admit that I kind of tuned out there for a minute. After he said he had no problem with me touching him, my rational mind was pretty much taken hostage by intense hormonally induced images of my running my hands all over that body. 

I try to remember what he was saying, but it looks like maybe he's run out of words. That's a first. 

"I'm glad. That you don't mind. Because I-- well, you saw Kramer's party?" 

He nods his head cautiously, but he looks a little confused. I guess it does sound like it came out of nowhere. 

"I was watching it at the station, and it just suddenly hit me..." And then I'm clamming up, thinking about how Blair is just as likely to have a hand on me as I am to have one on him. Like when he's trying to talk me down, or walking in a room with me, he usually puts a hand on my shoulder or my arm, just to remind me he's around. That he's there for me. If I think about it, he escorted me toward the cake at Kramer's a little like he was afraid I'd bodycheck someone on my way to the frosting flowers, but mostly just like he was keeping close to me. Ready to smile at me, pat my shoulder. 

He strokes me just like he does that silly mutt. 

And I _like_ it. 

Hell, I think I _need_ it. 

And that's just too depressing. 

* * *

"What about the video, Jim?" 

He sighs so deep I'm thinking his lungs might _collapse_ and then he puts his heads in those huge hands of his and says, "I don't think I can do this, kid." 

"Do what?" 

"Keep you around. Keep you under my thumb, under my roof, like some kind of weird pet. It's not fair to you." 

Damage control. 

"Fair to me? Weird pet? Is this about my hair in the drain again, because--" 

Turning to me, he catches my shoulders in his hands and says, "That's not what I meant." He lets go of me, waves vaguely. "I mean-- what are those animals, those ponies, that share trailers with thoroughbreds so they don't stroke out before a race? I don't want us to be like that." 

I admit it, I'm confused. 

"So now I'm a pony?" 

"No-- Jesus, Sandburg, no, you're not a goddamned _pony_ \--" 

"Jim, look, it's okay, just settle down, man, and we'll think it through--" 

"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about!" 

_What_ is exactly what he's talking about? 

Oh. Wait. _This._ I've got my palms running all over his back, and I'm talking in my best "Calm Down, Big Guy" voice. 

Oh. Man. 

* * *

The kid's looking at his hands like he's never seen them before, like he's surprised that they belong to him. 

He looks a little upset, now, maybe even embarrassed. 

Oh Christ, this isn't what I wanted. I didn't want to worry the guy. How can I let him know that I'm not angry with _him_? 

"Chief, I'm sorry, I'm blowing it all out of proportion here, it's nothing to worry about, just some stupid hang up I've got, and I can deal with it." 

He looks at me, just glancing up from his hands at first and then _really_ looking at me, right through me like I'm an evidence baggy and he can see all the scraps that got left behind and bundled up to be picked over later. That mouth, that incredible mouth of his, is pursed, thoughtful. 

"Are you saying you're having a problem with touching me?" Not accusatory, just questioning. 

"No Chief, it's nothing like that--" I scramble, but he heads me off at the pass. 

"Then is it me touching you?" He's got his professor face on, the one that's all curious and cocked to one side. 

I get to my feet and start pacing. I need to move, need to make this clear. He stands up, too, with his hands up to reach for my arm in passing. 

"I _want_ you to touch me." What did you just say, Jim? Tell me you didn't just say that out loud, Ellison. Tell me that. "And that's the problem." 

Sandburg is frowning now, and that's quite an expression. I used to think he didn't even know _how_. That bounce is gone, the spark is flickering, and I've really fucked things up here. 

* * *

"Man, do you mean that?" 

He gives me an "of course I mean it, you idiot" look and I'm _so_ jazzed, it's all I can do to keep from launching myself at him and clinging to him like human Saran Wrap. 

"Do you mean that as in... you know. The way I think you mean it?" 

His ears get pink. 

I'll take that as a yes. 

"Well, can I touch you, then?" 

He eyes are laser blue and zeroed in on my face, and I just know he's trying to read me, heart rate, pupil dilation, whatever, but his face is blank, like he's afraid to smile. Obviously, he wasn't expecting this, so he shrugs, kind of wary. If I'm lucky, if I act fast, maybe I can keep him from backpedaling before it's too late. 

So I yank my shirt open. 

And Jim just _freezes_ up. 

* * *

He has more hiding underneath that sea foam button-down than I remembered. 

Nothing scrawny about Professor Sandburg. His chest is _wide_. Always has been, apparently, not that I'd ever noticed before. It's all patterned with brownish curling hair, just _that_ much lighter than the curls on his head, and his belly is shadowed with fur, and just looks so damned touchable that I grit my teeth and clench my fists to keep from dragging him towards me and eating him alive. 

He steps closer to me, completely oblivious of any danger he might be in, utterly ignorant of my raging lust, and the smell of him, it's like he was wrapped in wax paper, muffled up, and with his shirt open he's just incredible, mouthwatering, and I am just _flooded_ with Blair as I take a second, deeper breath... 

The kid takes my hand and places it over his heart. 

"Let's start where you're comfortable, right? You're more used to touching me, so we'll start here. Tell me what you're feeling, Jim." 

I would have bet I was beyond speech, but I do what he asks. 

"You feel... furry." He kind of laughs at that, nods encouragingly. "Fuzzy?" I'm cupping his flat little pec in my hand, and I can feel the little nub of his nipple bumping up to meet my palm. 

With my other hand, I reach up and slip it under his curls at the back of his neck. It's a little sweaty there. I take a handful of his hair and lift it to my nose, so okay, I'm _nuzzling_ his hair, and he's not making a move to stop me, just whispers, almost sub-vocally, "So what's it feel like to you?" 

"Feels like your hair," I murmur. _That's_ descriptive. "I like the way it catches my fingers," I add. "Like your chest hair, only not as crunchy." 

He does laugh now, his voice is all warm and low, and I can feel his breath bang around in my ear canal, "Crunchy, huh?" 

"Crunchy," I affirm, and close my eyes, let my hands curl at his waist, and just breathe him in, commune a little, with the variety of smells that make up the nation that is Blair. 

* * *

Jim's hardly touched me at all, but I can tell he's _invested_ , that he is _completely_ into this, this touching thing. 

I want to keep him talking, because I don't want him to zone on me, I want him _here_ , because I don't want him to miss a _thing._

I'm feeling a little out of control, myself. Like I might fall down or fly apart. So I flop back against the couch, and Jim just follows me down like he's a handcuffed to me. Like he couldn't let me go if he wanted to. 

I'm a little giddy, I guess, because I laugh again, his palm resting where the hair is thickest, and he seems to like that, the vibration probably, because he pokes a finger at my belly to see if I'm ticklish-- how did he know?-- and I am _gone_ , oh man Jim do _not_ stop touching me... 

* * *

The kid is giggling like-- well, like a kid, and he's wriggling like a bag full of hula girls. I'm getting a bang out of the way I can feel his laugh shiver up my arms, and the _sound_ of it... I want him to laugh all the time. 

It's distracting the way his eyes squeeze shut, and the way that his mouth opens so wide. I can see his shiny, square teeth and the slick red of his tongue. He keeps swiveling his hips, and that's distracting, too. I reach out to pin them down; they're driving me crazy. 

His eyes flip open, and his hair looks like it's exploded around his head, just jumping out of his skull like those party snakes in a can, and he's breathless, and his blue eyes are so wide, he almost looks panicked, but no, that skip of his heart isn't fear, and the way his chest is heaving isn't flight response, and the fact that his hips are rocking under my hands sure as hell isn't a silent request to be let go. 

I zero in on the rising bulge in his jeans, catalog the shape of it in case Blair's vacationing sanity decides to return and this never happens again. 

I let myself look at it him, at his face, and he props himself up on his elbows, heart rate climbing, and this time, he _is_ nervous, I can smell it in his sweat, and he says, "Jim?" Like he's unsure, like he's half-afraid of me. Afraid of this, maybe. Probably. What the hell am I thinking? Does he really want this? 

Jesus, what if he's just going along to-- 

What if this is just some sort of weird _test_? 

I tear my hands off him, and my stupid hands, my fingers, still dialed up, already miss the cups of his hips, even through his jeans, and I curl them into fists so that they'll forget him faster. 

* * *

The banked heat that is Jim is no longer leaning over me, reflecting my own sweat back at me. My nipples are so hard they're kind of painful, and I can feel the little pull of my nipple ring's weight. Jim's standing now, pacing some more, prowling I guess you could call it, and something's gone wrong again. 

I try not to sigh. There's _so_ much more at stake here than my getting off. This is a big deal to Jim, and I want to respect his boundaries, help him out, but, man, these jeans are _tight_ and it looks like Jim's gonna need all of my attention... 

Deal, Sandburg. Your Sentinel needs you. 

I jump up and close my hands around his upper arms, and it gives me an idea. I have to show him how much I want this, and let him know it's okay to want me back. He lets me tug his shirt over his head, and then kind of just _stands_ there. 

"Jim, touching you is _fantastic_ \-- I mean _amazing_. You're--" 

"Sandburg..." he says slowly. And it's not the slow groan of lusting Jim I'd like to hear right about now. 

"Yeah?" 

"You want this, don't you? I mean, you wouldn't just..." 

I just smile at him and unbuckle my jeans. 

"You don't think I'd sleep with you just to test your autonomic responses, do you?" 

* * *

When I don't answer him right away, his sunny grin dims and his eyes get grave. 

" _DO_ you?" 

"Well, I--" 

"In case you haven't noticed, Jim, I'm not exactly taking notes, here." He gestures to his open shirt, his unbuckled jeans. They're beginning to slip low on his narrow hips. 

He stalks towards the door, and when I turn around, I get a face full of cotton as he throws my shirt in my face. A second later, he hurls my jacket at me and unlocks the door, swinging it open and stabbing a finger at it. 

"Get out." 

"What?" 

"You heard me, Jim. Get the fuck out." 

"But--" 

He holds up his hands and shakes his head. 

"Get going." 

"But I live here!" 

He almost grins; I can see him tighten his jaw. 

"Whattaya know! So do I. And I'm throwing _you_ out. Go on, hit the pavement, gumshoe. See if you can find a clue." 

I edge toward the door. Blair whistles and Bert trundles up to him, jumping and yelping with hysterical joy. Clipping the leash to the thing's collar, he hands it to me. 

"Take Bert for a walk. He'll keep you from wandering out into traffic. And don't come back until you _think_ you know I won't _literally_ kick your ass down three flights of stairs." 

* * *

I can't fucking _believe_ it. 

I have Jim Ellison at my sexual _mercy_ and then he gets some bright idea that this is some kind of _game_ I'm playing. 

You would think he'd know me better by now. I mean, Jesus. I've saved the man's _life_ , for crying out loud. More than once, I might add. 

Okay, okay, that only barely breaks even for the forty-three _million_ times he's had to haul _me_ out of the line of fire, but that's not the point. 

The point is: he should trust me. Actually, he does trust me. I do know that. But he's so damned-- 

Vulnerable. 

Hello, Blair, the man has been betrayed by the people he's loved most on more than one occasion. His parents. Laura. Lila. That bitch Veronica. 

Jesus, no wonder he's a little hesitant, here. 

Well, I've officially blown it, huh? How could I have _been_ so hotheaded!? 

I guess Jim's not going to be the only one lining up an apology. 

* * *

Bert heels like a pro. And he automatically stops at street corners. I guess it wasn't such a bad idea to have the mutt along after all. He _is_ keeping me from wandering into traffic. 

Trust Blair to save me from myself even when he's so pissed he's cross-eyed. 

I find a park bench eventually, and Bert settles beside me, tongue lolling. I wonder how Blair's buddy Fitch, a hulking bearded guy nearly as tall as Simon, ended up with such a... _frou frou_ animal. 

Bert looks up at me and then turns his head, ears forward, to look at a Mr. Tubesteak cart with complete devotion. 

"You want a hot dog, buddy?" 

He swivels back to me, tail thumping hopefully. 

"I'll tell you what, we'll share one." 

So here I am, tossed out on my ear, confiding in a dog and feeding him half a Tubesteak Special with extra kraut. 

Not a pretty picture, Ellison. 

For a minute I think about calling Simon, but I don't think he could handle the idea that I was planning to get naked with Blair, let alone offer me advice on how to go about it. 

So now I have to wonder about Blair's motivation, here. 

I'm not bad looking, I look better than a lot of guys half my age, but the operative word here is _guy_. I mean, I'm Sentinel of the Great City, right? The kid may be an Observer, but I'm a _detective_ , and I didn't get my badge out of a cereal box. Even without Sentinel abilities, I don't need a pair of binoculars to see that Sandburg is 100% red-blooded heterosexual American male. 

Or anyway, that he used to be. 

Before me. 

Maybe he's just feeling experimental in a completely non-scientific way? 

If it was just sex... 

It's not just sex. 

That silly kid loves me. 

The dog barks like he can read my mind, and agrees with me. 

"Time to face the music, Bert." 

And we head for home. 

"Well?" 

He hands me a beer as soon as I come in, and he's made a couple of sandwiches, too. He's buttoned his jeans, but his belt is gone and his shirt is still open, and that makes me weirdly hopeful. Nonverbal cues. I take a pull from my beer and we just kind of stand there for a minute. He twitches his eyebrows and I put the beer down on the counter, glance around the room. 

"Uh..." I stall by unleashing the dog and setting out a bowl of chow for him. 

"So tell me why I wanted to get naked with you," he prompts, when I've resealed the 35 pound sack of dogfood slouching against the refrigerator. 

"You wanted to sleep with me, " I hazard. 

He can't keep the grin from his eyes, even if he manages to keep his mouth stern. 

"Man, you really know your way around a euphemism. But it's true enough that I'll let you try _again_." 

"Because you love me." And I hold my breath, because that's the stupidest, most arrogant thing I've ever said out loud. And that's saying a lot. But I mean, why else would he put up with me? 

A slow grin spreads across his face, and his eyes brighten. 

"The judges ask that you phrase that in the form of a question." 

"Do you love me?" 

"What the hell do _you_ think?" 

And I nod and he laughs a little, and shrugs out of his shirt. 

Then he lifts his head and locks eyes with me, breath close and no-nonsense all of a sudden. 

"I apologize, too, Jim. I mean, it's not exactly easy for you to do the involvement thing, and I know it. I know you've been hurt before, man, and I'm sorry for forgetting that. I won't forget again. And I promise that I'll never betray your trust in me. So _trust_ me, Jim, okay?" 

I reach out and close my hand around his elbow. I can feel the tiny muscles under the skin pull the hairs on his arm taut as his skin marbles up. 

"I love you," I blurt, and he blushes all over, cheek to chest. 

"I know," he says, and I have to close my eyes and hold on to him then, my face buried in his springy hair, and I'm surprised by how strong he is when he hugs me back. 

* * *

Eventually, our Kodak moment passes, I kind of tow him upstairs and push him on to the bed. I'm ready to get down and dirty. 

I start by pushing up his shirt; I've always wanted to get my hands on that six pack, and I tell him that, I admit every lustful thought I can think of, make up a few new ones, but I have _my_ hands on him, on Jim, and all those furrows and hollows and it's just not _enough_ , my hands on him, I want to taste him, too, but before I can lean down and kiss his belly, he's tumbled me, and he's crouching over me, and I can hear him panting my name, and he hunkers down and kisses _my_ belly _so_ tenderly, like he's going to render me in Braille later, and I feel so... so... 

I don't even know _how_ I feel, but I know I wouldn't mind feeling this for the next 65 years or so. 

Jim. Jim. Jesus, man. 

Man. 

I am so blissed. 

"Blair?" 

I lift my head up, try to focus my eyes on him. I've got to pay attention. He might lose it, and I'll need to be here if he does... but I am so close to just having a totally out of body experience-- and hey, I want to be here, too, so I try to remember to breathe, try to remember my own name. 

"Yeah, Jim?" A bit rusty, but in working order. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

Can you kiss me? 

Jim, man, you can do any damned thing you _want_. That includes kissing, touching, rubbing, licking, anything you've got planned. 

I am _here_ for you. 

"Yes." 

* * *

I don't know if you've ever licked the inside of a beer bottle, but kissing Sandburg is like that. He's smooth and slick on the inside, and tastes like beer. 

I spent some time in Germany, where they serve the beer warm, but Blair's warmer than that. 

Of course, no beer ever tasted me back. 

Sandburg's tongue is filling my mouth, but it's not... overwhelming me. He's moving slow, pressing his lips against my lips, his tongue against my tongue, and he's kind of nudging me with little motions of his jaw. 

I could probably do this for hours. 

Days, maybe. 

My _tongue_ is in his mouth, he's making these amazing little happy sounds. Blair. My god, you taste good. You sound good. _Everything's_ good. 

When I open my eyes, I'm surprised to find myself propped up on my arms. My dick, never really in the best of moods, is complaining now. It wants out of my jeans and... into Sandburg. 

Holy shit. 

"Easy, easy... Hey. Hey, Jim, _relax_ , man. It's all good. This is exactly what we're gonna do..." 

And he calmly unzips my jeans and reaches in. 

* * *

"Look, hey, look at me, Jim. That's good, that's good, now lean up thereyeah, just like that. Okay, you can close your eyes now. Beautiful, yeah, now-- no, you don't have to hold still, rocking's good. It's really _really_ good... Now I'm gonna talk you through this, and you're gonna come for me and then... then, man, you're gonna feel out of _sight_ , you got me?" 

He nods, like my voice is the only thing he can hear. I can see relaxation just melt him down, and when he opens his eyes again, he looks surprised, amazed that he feels good. 

And he does. Feel good, I mean. All that muscle mashing me into the bed, _man_ , I feel crushed and sacred and so turned on I'm worried I'm gonna have an aneurysm before I can get him off. 

Which is my goal, here, after all. Blair Sandburg aims to please. And in the maybe fifteen years of my sexual career, I've rarely failed to satisfy. 

But so what if I've never actually brought another guy to climax? 

One thing I _have_ learned is that enthusiasm and dedication can beat skill any day of the year. 

I curl my fingers around him, and I'm surprised at how _soft_ he is... not soft like flaccid, but soft like touching a baby mouse. I hold my breath, and Jim holds his, and I stroke him once, and then again. 

He moans against my neck and says my name. 

"I got you, big guy. I'm gonna take care of you." I revise my first statement... if you were holding a python that happened to be wearing the _skin_ of a baby mouse... 

Warm, pettable, but underneath that all wiry strength and pulsing pressure. 

I keep stroking him, and I can feel him tremble, and then surge against me. He's humping my thigh, and asking if he can touch me, and hey man, carte blanche, mi casa es su casa, yeah, right there, you got it, _sweet_ \-- 

And he comes all over me, warm and wet, and whattaya know, his hand's on me, on my stomach, smearing through the mess he just made like he's _anointing_ me and then he's got me in his hand, slick palm and rough calluses and complete tenderness and I come too, and then he's shoving me over on the bed and tucking his head against my shoulder. 

Out of _sight_ , man. 

Just like I said. 

* * *

I'm still breathing, and I can still smell him, in fact, I can hear the individual hairs on his head rub against one another as he snuggles deeper into the pillow, so I haven't died, and I wasn't dreaming. 

Blair Sandburg, my partner, my best friend, is sleeping in my bed. 

Snoring, actually. He hasn't admitted it, but I think he's allergic to the dog. 

So he's snoring in my bed, after the most intense sexual experience of my _life_ , and we really didn't get much beyond some heavy petting. 

Heavy petting. _Heavy._ Yeah. 

Petting. 

That stupid dog. I can hear Bert's tail wagging from here. I'm going to be finding dog hairs on my upholstery for the next six months. 

But I don't really mind. 

Blair fits in my arms like he was made to be there, and I stroke his hair, nose his temple. I guess I've always wanted him here, in my bed, in my arms. I'd like to think he's wanted to be here, too. 

I feel a little _whammy_ of second-hand lust as my dick remembers all the things Blair said to convince me to touch him. 

I can't believe I actually needed convincing, but I guess I must have. And I _know_ it worked. 

I let my lips graze against the kid's cheek-- it's rosy with beard burn, and ready for a bout with a razor to combat his own stubble. 

He laughs in his sleep, did you know that? 

I'll bet half the female population of Cascade knows that. But that's all right. I can't blame them, can I? Me moth, him flame. I'm just another person who feels Blair's irresistible pull. 

* * *

This is definitely a new experience. It's not every day Blair Sandburg is awakened by kisses. 

I'm not going to say that it's never happened, but I will admit that being kissed by a lover who needs a shave is... unique. 

He's all over me, now that he can tell I'm awake, not urgent, not rushing, but just _tasting_ me, you know? 

I kiss whatever patch of skin happens to be available at the moment-- his shoulder, I think-- and say, "How are you doing, man?" 

And he lifts his head, and his eyes are clear as desert skies, man, believe me, and he says, "I'm doing fine, Sandburg. I'm incredible, in fact," and he closes his teeth against my shoulder and I _jump_ a little and he chuckles, this lazy satisfied _smug_ sound, right? And he says, " _You're_ incredible," and I am just so... 

So... 

Full. 

He rolls over and I seal my hand over his navel, where I get a weird sensation of suction against my palm. 

Jim. 

My best friend. 

Smart, loyal, sturdy, brave, fierce, astounding in bed and totally in love with me. 

It's hard to believe, but I think I'm getting the idea. He's kissing me, and man, his mouth, it's strong, amazing, so warm and pliant and yielding, that it's just _so_ obvious that I can do anything I want to him, that he'd let me stick his hand in a meat grinder if he thought I knew what I was doing, and I stare at the ceiling, stunned with pleasure, as Jim rearranges himself and laps my balls and sucks me off with an energy and enthusiasm I would never have expected. 

I don't know what to say, so I just blurt the first thing that comes into my mind. 

"Jim, can I rub your belly?" 

**Author's Note:**

> And because I love you, I must confess to yet another slip up about beer (can anyone tell that I'm not exactly St. Pauley Girl?), brought to my attention by patient reader Marina, who reminds me: "In Germany we never serve beer warm... It's England where you can get warm beer. It's ugly." Apologies.


End file.
